Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
“No,” I say, remembering that it was only Jensen and I that talked about Lainey and the route in detail. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t.”
Eli nods thoughtfully. “Jensen mentioned her obsession.”
Ah, so I guess he does know.
“This is a good place to start,” he goes on, looking around. “Just over there is the wagon road from 1863. Donner trail intersected with it at places even though they were made at different times. Just following the natural lay of the land. A lot of pioneers passed through here. Any Donner buff would find themselves in this area.”
I glance toward Jensen, who’s now examining the base of a massive pine at the edge of the clearing. “You know your history as much as he does.”
“He knows better than most,” Eli agrees, his voice dropping slightly. “These mountains…they speak to some people. Call to them.” He looks up at me, his expression unreadable. “Your sister might have heard that call too.”
Before I can reply, Red saunters over, dropping an armload of firewood beside us.
“Best get that tent up before dark,” he drawls, eyeing my pitiful progress. “Unless you fancy sleeping under the stars. Course, it’s supposed to drop below freezing tonight.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “But I’m sure Jensen would keep you warm.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. Dear god, none of them know what happened between last night, do they?
“I’ll manage,” I say stiffly.
Red chuckles. “Well, if he doesn’t, I will.”
I glare at him as Eli gives him a dirty look. “Can it, Red.”
Red laughs again, leering at me before he moves away.
“Ignore him,” Eli says, then nods at my tent. “You sure you don’t need help?”
“Positive,” I tell him. He nods and starts putting together the fire, leaving me to wrestle with the poles and fabric that seem determined to tangle into impossible knots.
The sun is starting to sink behind the mountains, casting long shadows across our clearing, the temperature is already dropping. A wind kicks up, carrying the bite of snow and the haunting sound of the creek beyond the trees.
After ten frustrating minutes with the hot mess of a tent, I’m ready to admit defeat when a pair of weathered hands takes it from me.
“Like this,” Jensen says quietly, deftly unfolding the bewildering array of poles. “Corners first, then cross-sections.”
I watch as he transforms the chaos into a functional shelter in less than two minutes, his movements economical and precise. There’s no judgment in his face, just calm focus.
“Thank you,” I manage, trying not to feel completely useless. “I went camping a few times when I was young but my dad did everything for me.”
He manages a wry grin. “We had very different dads.” He secures the last stake, then points toward the creek. “There’s a game trail through those pines. Leads to a good spot for filling water bottles at the creek.” He hands me a metal canteen from his pack. “We’ll need fresh water for cooking. I’d go with you, but I need to check the perimeter before dark.”
“At least I can handle filling water bottles.”
His eyes meet mine, serious now. “Stay within earshot of camp. Follow the trail, don’t wander. Five minutes, then back.”
“I’m not a child, Jensen.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice dropping slightly, growing rough. “You’re definitely not that.”
Something in his tone makes my pulse quicken. I take the canteen and turn toward the trees, feeling his eyes on me as I walk away.
The game trail is narrow but clear, winding between ancient pines whose branches interlock overhead like gnarled fingers. The forest floor is springy with decades of fallen needles, muffling my footsteps. As I move deeper into the trees, the sound of the creek grows louder, though I still can’t see it through the dense undergrowth.
The air feels different here, heavier somehow, charged with something I can’t name. I find myself moving slower, more cautiously, attuned to every snapping twig and rustling leaf. The rational part of my brain knows it’s just normal forest sounds, but something more primal whispers caution, similar to the feeling I had last night before the horse appeared.
I’m almost to the creek when I spot it—a small cairn of stacked stones, too deliberate to be natural. Seven smooth river rocks balanced in decreasing size, the top one barely larger than a marble. It reminds me of something Lainey used to do on our childhood hikes, marking special places she wanted to remember.
My heart beats faster as I crouch to examine it. The stones are old, covered in lichen, but the structure itself looks relatively recent. Someone has maintained it, kept it from toppling.
I’m reaching out to touch it when a twig snaps behind me.
I whirl, nearly dropping the canteen, to find Jensen standing a few paces away. The fading light catches in his eyes, making them gleam in the gathering dusk.